


I'm A Poor Man Walking Down The Road

by gala_apples



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Blasphemy, Break Up, Class Differences, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:44:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the span of a few hours Erik breaks up with his boyfriend, learns that the downside to having sketchy criminal friends is that they're completely unreliable, demolishes some rich asshole's mansion, and ends up playing chess as foreplay with said asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A Poor Man Walking Down The Road

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I'm A Poor Man Walking Down The Road (art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/951799) by [mala_ptica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mala_ptica/pseuds/mala_ptica). 



> This fic was written for the xmenreversebigbang, [here](http://xmenreversebang.livejournal.com).
> 
> This fic was inspired by cleo_eurydike's art, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/951799).

Morgan comes home with a plastic bag in hand, huge grin splitting his beard from moustache. Erik eyes it hungrily. He doesn’t recognise the logo on the outside, but that hardly matters at this point. It could be from a zero star restaurant and he would consume it like the richest of edible masterpieces.

“You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get this,” Morgan says, and starts a mad tale of pretending to be an employee to get his hands on a take out order. Erik sits fidgeting with the chain Morgan shoplifted for his last birthday, trying his best to be a good listener. He’d like to eat now and save the stories for after his stomach has some food in it, but Morgan is the epitome of the king’s jester. If Erik doesn’t play along and clap when appropriate his boyfriend’s pout will be visible for miles.

He can hurry him along though, as long as he’s somewhat subtle. That skill Erik learned years ago, mere months into their relationship. Erik opens the top drawer of the dresser that doubles as their table and picks up a medium sized ball of plastisteel. He starts molding it into a plate; a flat squash of his hand lengthwise then widthwise makes the material relatively circular, then it’s a matter of smoothing the bottom and thinning the sides at a slight upwards angle. Once the first plate is done Erik applies the fixative that prevents the compound from changing shape until it gets wet, then takes up a second ball. Erik’s just flattening the last part of the edge of the second plate when Morgan wraps up his adventure. It could be coincidence, but Erik thinks not.

Morgan uncrumples the plastic bag and fishes a wrapped sandwich out of it. Only when Morgan takes off the tissue does Erik see it for what it is; a thick cheeseburger laden with extras. He puts it on one side of the plate and spills french fries from a styrofoam carton until a decently high pile forms, then holds the plate out to Erik expectantly.

“I forgot to grab salt, but I think we can live without it, right?” 

Erik puts the plate down on their dresser/table. He wishes there was enough actual steel in the plastisteel compound that he could make more of a scene. If there was, if he could, he’d float the obviously non-kosher food straight out of the house.

“You know I can’t eat this.”

“What?” Morgan mumbles the question around the bite of burger he’s already taken.

“I can’t eat this, so you might as well put it on your plate.”

Morgan swallows -rather prematurely, their normal routine after starving is to chew every ounce of flavour out of a bite before swallowing- and crosses his arms. “You’re serious? We haven’t eaten in thirty six hours, I manage to find us some premo food, against all odds, and you’re too picky to eat it?”

Erik frowns. “I have dietary restrictions, you know that.”

“Yeah, I’m aware. I just don’t see how it’s more important that your stomach eating itself.”

“My religion-”

“Your religion is irrelevant. You think God cares about planet Thorus? We’re kinda out of his-it’s-whatever’s jurisdiction.”

“Fuck you Morgan. Just fuck you.”

“I thought your God was against men fucking?” Morgan sneers. He picks up the cheeseburger that he’d originally offered Erik and takes a bite out of it. Morgan chews with a vindictive look on his face, but at least he’s not trying to force feed him.

Except really, how fucked up is it that Erik should have to worry about that as an event that could happen?

Erik shakes his head. “I’m done.”

“With what? With your preaching?”

With this conversation and yes, it hits him, he’s done with Morgan too. Morgan is great in a few ways, good in many others, but he’s a staunch atheist, and the creed of atheist who preaches by loudly ridiculing any believer in earshot. If Erik was smart he never would have even started dating him.

“With being here.”

It doesn’t take long to pack up his things. Having possessions and meals comes second to paying rent. A distant second. Eating once a day won’t kill you. The sun will, eventually. Erik manages to fit all of his belongings into one plastifabric bag. The only other thing Erik wants to keep is the full length mirror. He’s had some very good times associated with that mirror. But it’s too large to haul with him, so Morgan will get to keep it by default.

“Whatever. You’ll be back. You can’t just squat anywhere you want, babe,” are Morgan’s last words before he closes the door.

Erik hates to admit it, but Morgan might be right. He could very well be back in that apartment in a matter of hours. Sleeping outside is one of the most irresponsibly unhealthy things a person can do. He has to find shelter, and he has to find it now. Otherwise he’ll be facing some hard choices.

He doesn’t have a tracker. It’s a luxury he can’t afford, along with practically everything else stores sell. Most of his friends also can’t afford it, so it would border on pointless to have one anyway. When Erik wants to visit friends he contacts them manually; showing up on their doorsteps if he knows they’ll be home, or writing a letter if he wants to make certain plans for the future. There’s no time for a letter, obviously, so he centers the bag on his shoulder and begins the walk to Juggernaut’s. 

Most people scurry on the streets - poor people, of course, the rich have slidewalks indoors - but Erik’s never felt an overabundance of fear about the outdoors, just acceptance. At least nature maims and kills innocently. Humans enjoy it.

Juggernaut’s not home. In fact, no one is in the thin apartment block, because it’s now no more than rubble on the ground. The last time Erik spoke to Juggernaut he had been having issues with his landlord. Evidently that tension has resolved itself with Juggernaut showing off his special talent. So now the man’s either in hiding or in prison, and either way he’s useless. 

But it’s fine, really. He’s not Erik’s only friend. He’s not even particularly Erik’s friend. They met because Juggernaut commissioned him for a metal helmet so he could destroy things with greater ease, not over chess and fine literature. Erik doesn’t need him, there are several other places he could walk to and expect to be let in. 

So he does, and in every case the friend isn’t home. Three have been evicted for not paying their rent. One apartment has been condemned -recently, because it’s not yet filled with squatters- and has no neighbours Erik wants to ask about relocation. Another apartment block has new management, of the cartel variety. Erik can tell that by the new graffiti on the outside walls. He doesn’t bother to walk inside and up the flights of stairs. Emma Frost tolerates a lot of things, drug cartels aren’t one. 

The consistent absence of his friends is enough to annoy Erik as he walks to Toad’s hovel. Common manners says at least one of them should have dropped in to tell him and Morgan, and he should have gotten a few letters. And yet, nothing. Each absence has been a blind-side. At least he can be sure that Toad will be home. For most people the sun does unseen damage, but Toad’s spring green skin peels in painful sheets if he’s out for long.

Except that Toad doesn’t answer the door when Erik knocks. In his place is a man that looks nearly human, except for the purple that replaces the whites of his eyes and runs up past his eyebrows to his hairline. It could almost be a make up effect.

“Are you Toad’s friend?” Sleeping three to a two room home will be tight, but Erik has had far worse in his twenty five years alive. He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t have to share a pillow with Toad. Drool spots are disgusting in general, but they’re particularly bad when the drooler has hallucinogenic spit and toxic mucus.

“Who?”

“Toad. A man with a sort of yellow green complexion, and an impressive tongue.” If he could, Erik would give the stranger Toad’s real name. But he can’t. He doesn’t know it. A lot of the mutants he knows go by nicknames only, and Toad is one of them, at least in Erik’s presence. If this man is an old friend, maybe he does know Toad by Mark or Edward or whatever it happens to be.

“Oh! That guy! No, I don’t really know him.”

Erik frowns. Toad can both leap amazing distances quickly, and grab things with great dexterity with his many feet long tongue. Combined this makes him a skilled petty thief. He should have easily had the money to pay rent. Unless he left for another reason, like the street being bid on by a new gang. Not every gang is mutant friendly, and Toad’s visibly mutant.

“Do you have any idea where he relocated to?”

Purple Forehead crosses his arms, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Once he begins to talk Erik understands why. “Mister, he got the broils.”

Erik shudders. “Is he in the hospital or is he...”

“I dunno. I met him in the hospital. I had a wicked nosebleed, I get them sometimes, and they need to be cauterized. He was in the waiting room looking sicker by the minute. He told everyone he had a place in a weak gang territory, told us how to get in if we needed a place to squat for a bit. Then I got called. When I got back out, he was gone.” Purple Forehead shrugs. “I dunno what to tell you. He hasn’t come back to kick me out. He could be dead of it.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Erik should be sad. Instead he’s just angry. Fuck Toad for getting something at twenty years old that most people get after a lifetime of sun exposure. Fuck this planet for being so poisonous. Fuck being poor and being unable to in a hundred years save enough to even get into the sky, never mind off-planet. Fuck the rich, who could leave, but don’t. And especially fuck having to make the decision between taking ten more steps towards a disgusting terminal illness or begging forgiveness of an ignorant boyfriend so he has somewhere safe to sleep.

The insides of a presumably stolen watch a few houses down vibrate trying to soothe his anger. Erik lets the pieces know they can stay in their original form, but thanks them nonetheless. That’s when he realises it. He can make his own shelter. He can make a metal tent, or even a metal shack. He has the ability. He just doesn’t have much in the way of raw material. Earth metal is a raw commodity on Thorus. It’s easier to manufacture plastisteel and plastifabric than it is to haul precious organics from a distant planet. But the idea is is sound.

Erik leaves the cluster of shanty houses and casts his net. He begins walking towards where he can feel more metal than simple stolen jewelry, not paying attention to the actual direction, or whether he’s on the sidewalk or in the street, only the mental texture of large deposits of the elements that love him. He ends up on the periphery of a rich neighbourhood, of course. In one of the mansions Erik can actually feel steel beams. He bets they’re exposed. You don’t spend that kind of money to not show it off.

Erik waivers back and forth for a second on what the better method is; taking a little from a lot of houses, or taking it all from one. Then he decides he’s past caring about courtesy. He grabs a selection of metal and pulls. Amid crazy crashing and wrenching sounds that sound nothing but beautiful to him, the metal comes to him. It hovers around his shoulder forming a until he gathers what he thinks will be enough.

Erik decides to try a tent-like structure first. He so rarely gets to work with metal. Now that he can, and can do whatever he likes with it, he really wants to stretch himself and do something that takes some skill. If he can’t make it work he can just do a thick box shaped shanty, but he’s got confidence in himself. 

He’s so busy thinning the aluminum to the width of plastifabric that he doesn’t notice the girl in blue until she’s almost on him. And then she’s _on him_. She’s strangling him, and not with her hands. With her feet. 

Erik’s so startled by it all that he loses control of his metal and it falls to the sidewalk. The noise knocks a little sense back into him. He’s got to save himself. He reaches up to pry her feet off and discovers two things. One; her feet are encased in a type of footwear Erik’s never seen before. It’s like a slipper, but textured blue leather, not anything fluffy and comfortable. They’re tight enough to give her full dexterity the way normal shoes wouldn’t. Two; she’s impossibly strong. But that might be natural ability, because her mutant ability is obviously imperviousness to pain. Erik’s scratching into her blue leggings try to pry her feet away, and he’s kneeing her in the back. Neither action is affecting her. In a minute he’ll run out of air, and that’s presuming she doesn’t take this assault all the way and snap his neck.

“Mystique, stop.”

The shoes on Erik’s neck waver a moment before stiffing their grip once more. Erik’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t remember doing it, it’s like his body is trying to preserve itself by shutting down unnecessary functions whether or not his brain directs it to. It won’t be enough. He’s going to die. He’ll be dead, like Toad and a dozen other friends and his parents, and the fact that the delivery of death is different doesn’t matter because dead is dead.

The voice repeats “Mystique. Stop.” The man sounds much closer this time. Maybe close enough to save him, if the stranger can manage to be a little stronger than Erik has been.

Her feet loosen a second time and fall to the ground as her top half comes up in an acrobatic flip. Erik’s eyes open to a scowling redhead. It’s instantly clear she’s a mutant. Every inch of skin he can see is blue and tough looking, not just her feet and legs. And somehow that triggers his sense of self-preservation again. He doesn’t quite impale them with an improvised shaft of metal and run away, but he’s done giving up.

The woman, Mystique apparently, clenches her fists. “Charles, how dare you?”

And now it’s Charles’ time to speak. He’s a gorgeous man. Erik might listen to what Charles had to say even if he hadn’t said the magic words to prevent his murder. “I dare because you were about to kill that man.”

“He destroyed half our house!”

“Material possessions do not warrant death.”

Erik and Mystique scoff at the same time. He knows without certain material possessions you die, and it’s better to cause someone else’s than cause your own. She’s probably just cranky that disappearing nails made her mansion’s artwork fall to the ground. There’s no way a woman like her knows what it’s like to bear the burdens he has. Her plastifabric dress is impeccably styled, like it didn’t seem a waste of time to spend hours sculpting something that would sag and droop at the first drip of water. 

“Well what do you propose we do, Charles?”

Charles lays an arm on her bare shoulder, just barely avoiding slicing himself where the plastifabric juts up like a crown. With the other hand he gestures vastly to Erik. “This charming man will rebuild the foundations, of course.”

Erik scoffs a second time. “And why would I labour for free, for people so rich they have leather jackets?” Erik can’t claim Charles doesn’t look good in it. He does. But it reeks of excess. Leather is another Earth organic that costs hundreds of times more on Thorus.

“Because it’s labour willingly or labour forced,” Mystique snaps.

“Work at knifepoint?” Erik nearly hopes for it. This couple would be the sort to own real metal cutlery. Maybe even a silver set, which from what he’s read about the old culture was excess even on Earth. If they tried to force him with a blade he could use it to tear them apart.

Mystique shakes her head. “Charles isn’t a violent man. He possesses other characteristics. Show him.”

Charles raises two fingers to his temple. Erik has only an instant to think it might be a trick that a mutant arbitrarily assigns to releasing an ability. He has his own trick, outstretching one arm like he’s straining to touch metal. It separates being able to feel metal in his head at all times and actually shaping it. Before Erik can brace himself to be manipulated in some way he’s taking two steps backwards, completely not of his own volition. Then Charles’ hand drops and Erik regains control of his legs.

“You made Mystique stop. You have a sort of puppetry power.” Both sentences are beyond obvious. Erik wants to roll his eyes at himself the moment he says them.

Mystique smirks. “He has a lot more than that. But that’s what’s going to make you fix our house.”

“You can’t do that,” Erik bluffs. “Your power is physical. You can’t control someone else’s power.”

Charles raises his hand again, and Erik fully expects to be forced to make a sword or a chain necklace, depending on if the man’s leanings are more celebrating his own masculinity or his girlfriend’s femininity. Instead Mystique’s blue skin turns caucasian, then african.

“Don’t challenge me, Erik. I don’t want to make you feel violated. I just want you to fix our home. I need not crawl into your brain if you fix it willingly.” 

Erik decides to go with them willingly. It’s been made pretty clear that even if he gutted Mystique and ran Charles would catch him and then there would be hell to pay. Charles could probably even prevent the gutting part of the equation, with a quick finger to his temple. Going willingly on the other hand means that Erik can put a few nails back in the wall and be on his way.

From the outside the mansion doesn’t look that bad. The inside is another story. A half hour ago nails in the drywall didn’t mentally compute to lack of nails means lack of walls. Now that fact is obvious; the front hall is littered in drywall and wood paneling. Actual wood. Upon seeing it Erik’s mental ledger of Charles and Mystique’s wealth doubles. Leather and metal are nothing compared to bribing a sustainability judge to look away from enough torn down trees to line a house. What triggers his first bit of remorse is the grand frame and sharp splinters half underneath cracked drywall on one side of the hall. When it was intact that mirror was probably stunningly beautiful.

Erik does what he can to repair what he’s done. It’s not a one person job, but neither Mystique nor Charles seem inclined to leave him alone. They help throughout fixing the walls, holding the wooden sheets tight to the wall so he can drive the reformed nails in. Then it’s onto the roof with Mystique alone, because Charles doesn’t have the agility she does. Erik doesn’t have it either, but his presence isn’t an option. He doesn’t say anything about being out too long, even when securing shingles hits an hour’s worth of work, because he knows Mystique won’t care. She’s a hard person, a quality Erik could appreciate if she wasn’t rich and spoiled as well. 

Finally the job is done as best as he can do it. The renovation isn’t perfect, nowhere near, really, but there’s nothing more he can do. Erik rinses his hands of the roof grit in one of their many bathrooms, dries his hands on the hand sized towel -just another sign of luxury, that they have multiple towels for different purposes- and flicks the light off. Thankfully when he was drawing metal towards himself he didn’t bother with copper, otherwise all the electrical wiring would be gone. That wouldn’t have been as easy of a fix as reshingling.

Erik heads back towards the front hallway. It’s there that he’s intercepted by Charles. Charles doesn’t touch him, but he is much closer than Erik would normally permit from a rich person when he says, “wait. You don’t have to go.”

“I’ve finished what you’ve asked of me. We both know I can’t afford to compensate you for the things I couldn’t fix. Unless you mean to punish-”

Charles shakes his head. “I said you don’t have to go, not that I won’t allow it. I was only hoping you might want to join us for a meal.”

“Isn’t it late for dinner?” Erik asks. He’s ignoring that he desperately wants to join them. He’s ignoring that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. He’s ignoring that they’re rich enough to have multiple meal options and surely one will be kosher. It’s a matter of pride.

“Well, we were sitting down to eat when dining room inexplicably began to fall to ruin.” Charles’ smirk fades into a smile. “Come on. Sit. I dare say the chances of getting something hot are greater here than where you come from.”

That much is true, obviously. And Erik really does need to eat. After using his mutant ability for several unexpected hours his reserves of energy are all but gone. Combining not eating for another night with sleeping outdoors would be awful on his system.

“Take me to your kitchen.”

Practically everything in the kitchen Erik has never seen before. There are devices for heating food, and for cooling it. There are devices for mechanically slicing food, and for baking bread and making toast and stirring things particularly fast. And of course Erik’s first guess was right, they have actual plates and a drawer of cutlery, not a few blobs of plastisteel.

When it becomes obvious Erik is entirely out of his depth Charles doubles the portions of what he’s making himself. Shortly after they’re sitting in a separate room just for eating. Mystique’s already sitting, dipping a spoon into a bowl of soup. She doesn’t say anything as they crowd in beside and across from her, never mind that the table’s long enough to fit twenty. They don’t say anything either, just dig in.

Erik eats the salad and the hot slice of bread and the seasoned meat chop and revels in the feeling of being crammed with food. It’s easily the most he’s eaten in one sitting all year. When his plate is spotless he knows he has to break the simple silence. “Thank you,” he says because manners are important, even if being in someone’s debt is hard. “For letting me join you.”

“Thank you, for putting back together about sixty percent of what you broke.” With that Mystique leaves.

“My sister will learn to like you.”

Erik murmurs non-committally. He doesn’t want to argue with Charles but he hardly sees an opportunity to bond. He won’t exactly be attending their ballroom dances, or whatever it is rich people do to fill their days. He also doesn’t want to make a big deal out of his assumption of their relationship being wrong. It doesn’t mean anything to Erik anyway. Erik can’t afford a leather jacket. He’s not Charles’ type.

“Have you ever played chess?”

“With plastisteel a few times, when both parties cared enough to sculpt thirty two pieces. I’m sure you have a dedicated set.”

“I do. Carved from bone, I believe. Some people would say that’s morbid, but I think it’s lovely to imagine my body being useful even after my death.”

Erik grins, aware that it’s a little ugly. “I want that too, in a fashion.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I’m to die I want it to be for a cause I believe in, not from sun broils or some other old age problem. And if I do it right my legacy will continue to help other fighters after my death.”

“I think this is the perfect kind of conversation to have over chess.”

They do. They settle in a room that has a wide shelf of paper books -and at this point Erik is mentally pinning Charles and Mystique’s wealth at the top tenth percentile of Thorus because books printed on paper, what the _hell_ \- and after sitting in comfortable armchairs begin their game. Erik initially refrains from saying that Charles and his lot are what’s wrong with Thorus, but after a particularly deft move with his bishop Charles coaxes it out of him. He takes the explanation calmly, then proceeds to dismantle the argument Erik’s held close to his chest for decades. Erik can’t say he believes Charles’ counterargument, but Charles’ obvious intelligence makes it easier for Erik to ignore his morals and lean across the board to kiss him. He may be aroused by someone disgustingly rich, but at least it’s someone who can argue like a poor man.

“I would very much like to take this to my bedroom,” Charles says once they break away. His normally bright lips are positively red. Erik wants to lick the colour off. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” Erik nods as he stands. He gives one more glance to the chess board. It’s too bad they’re deserting it, he had a winning game strategised. But what he’s leaving it for is much better.

Charles takes him down a hallway, then makes a left. He opens the second door and stands in the doorway. “This isn’t truly my room, but I noticed during the reparation efforts that the north wing was mostly intact.”

Erik’s got nothing to say about having such a large home it has wings. The largest house he ever lived in had three rooms. He follows Charles in silently, then blinks to double check what he’s seeing. Erik grins when his first glance is proven right. The room is plain, almost boring, except for it’s main feature, which is pure beauty. Pure _sex_ , if you ask him. The walls are white, the floors are white, the bedding is neatly spread, and all of it reflects in the giant mirror that takes up the wall perpendicular to the door. 

They kiss as they struggle with clothing. Charles’ hands are more frantic than Erik would have guessed, but he likes it. He’s always liked men who know what they want, whether or not they can actually have it. Of course, Charles probably hasn’t been denied much in his lifetime.

“How do you want to do this?”

Erik bites back the sarcastic ‘first I want to fuck then I want to come’ that’s on the tip of his tongue. Erik can’t imagine bad sex, not with a mirror like this in the mix, but some positions afford much better angles than others. Charles is being unwittingly generous, letting Erik decide the best way to do this.

“On our sides, facing the mirror.”

“So you like the mirror?”

“How could anyone not?” Sex is fantastic, one of the things that makes life worth living. Mirrors make it possible to experience more sex at once.

“Then I dare say you’ll like this. Sit there.” Charles points. It’s the side of the bed furthest from the mirror. 

Erik sits as directed, but rebels slightly by sitting crosslegged facing the mirror rather than the normal feet on the floor. A minute later Erik knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that’s what Charles wanted him to do. The man in question is on his hands and knees. Sort of. More like chest and knees. His left hand is pulling one of his cheeks out of the way, the right busy fingering himself. The mirror is showing Erik everything, and he would have nothing if he was sitting normally. 

Erik looks back and forth between the reflected scene and Charles’ face half mashed into the mattress, lip bitten. It’s such a great show he’s confused for a second when Charles stops and rolls onto his side. 

Charles’ reflection smiles, making eye contact with him through the glass. “Well, come on then.”

Erik abandons his sitting position to lay behind Charles. He hooks a leg back and over Erik’s thigh. With his legs spread wide in front of the mirror Erik gets his first real look at Charles’ cock. It would be great to have in hand, but for now he’s going to focus on fucking Charles. What Morgan liked won’t necessarily be what Charles likes, and he wants to make this good for him, whether that means fast thrust or slow.

Charles doesn’t hold back when he comes. He’s so loud it’s almost like his moan is echoing through Erik’s head. Erik pauses for a moment, until Charles says “you can finish.” If anything Charles looks even hotter fucked out than he did being fucked. He’s flushed from head to toe, and he’s biting his lip again. Erik would get Charles to angle his head back to kiss that bruised skin, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Charles just looks so good the way he is that Erik doesn’t want to spoil it.

Erik rolls onto his sweaty back when he’s finished. Instead of joining him, Charles gets up and leaves the room. Erik has the time to think _so it’s like that_ , and _I guess I better get dressed and find the doors I came in to get my stuff_ and then Charles is back. He has two damp cloths in hand, and he passes one to Erik.

“Would you rather sleep here, or one of the other guest rooms?” Charles asks, unashamedly wiping his thighs of the come leaking out of him.

Erik tries to catch his eye. Just because Charles is brash doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth. It’ll be easier to judge the man if he’s pinning him down his with his eyes.

“You’re staring at me as if you scarcely believe my offer.”

Erik has never been one to allow interrogations to flip back on him. “Frankly, I don’t. Until two hours ago, every last dollar I was making was going to paying my shared rent. Now I’m being given free occupancy? it doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m simply being considerate.”

“Rich people don’t stay rich being considerate.”

“I hardly see why money comes into this. If I lived in a two room hovel I’d still offer you a place for the night. No sense in getting lost trying to get home.”

It’s not truly night, of course. There is no night on Thorus, not like Earth. The nearest star is always hanging huge and red and sickening in the sky. Nor is Erik the type of person to get lost. His navigation skills are exceptional, if only because different metals feel different and there are so few deposits of them that he can navigate by ‘go to the bar of iron, turn left at the ounce of gold’. The fact remains, however, that he doesn’t have a home to return to, and it’s really better to not sleep outdoors and expose himself if he can avoid it.

“As I said, it’s your choice to stay or leave, if you want my bed or an empty one. But I really must sleep now. I have an engagement in the morning.”

Erik should go to a guest room. That way would let him be out of sight out of mind. He could sleep through the whole night on what’s no doubt another great bed, and not get kicked out until Mystique found him some time before noon. If Erik shares a bed, Charles, as spoiled as he is, might get mad if he can’t roll over to the other side of the bed when he half wakes. Being dragged from REM sleep to be ousted for being an annoyance would suck.

And yet Erik doesn’t stand up, or ask Charles to take him to a different room. He just drops the come covered cloth on the small table beside the bed and rolls onto his stomach. The sheet sticks to him a little, but he’s had far more discomfort in bed before. Spike’s bed was littered with shards of bone the last time Erik had reason to spend the night.

Charles takes the movement as the answer it is, and gets back into bed himself. After settling he throws an arm over Erik’s shoulders. It’s too intimate for strangers, which is what they are, really. It’s not sexy enough for an invitation to round two. Erik’s not sure what to do with it. But Charles’ arm is the highest point in the bed when Erik strains his neck to look at them in the mirror, and the stretch of it looks good. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.


End file.
